Sharpe's Soldier
by alais
Summary: Harry Flashman, lecher, coward and all-round blackguard finds himself out of time, and ... involved ... with the heroic Richard Sharpe
1. A tumble through time

I told you from the outset I'd make these memoirs truthful, but I never promised anyone to tell the whole truth. I'd've had to be a damn fool to make a promise like that, and whilst I may be a cad, a coward, a boozer and a chronic adulterer, one thing even old Arnold never accused me of, before kicking me out of Rugby, was damned-foolishness.  
  
Nonetheless, there is one question I've left unanswered, thus far, that I know you must be agog to be satisfied upon. It is of course, the question of buggery - the love that dare not speak its name, the sin of Sodom, the Greek vice. Did I, or did I not, enjoy a spot of bum-banditry, to add the spice of variety to my many and well-documented amatory adventures with the ladies (God love 'em)?  
  
Well, of course I did! It was a rare product of Britain's illustrious Public School system that didn't get their introduction to carnal pleasures at the fumbling hands of some prepostor, and being the comely lad and sneaking little toady that I was, I could hardly have escaped the attentions of these youthful swains. Not that I wanted to. To be perfectly frank, I took to the whole thing like a damn Scot to porridge, and when age and seniority put me in the position to press my own suit, I became quite as enthusiastic a buggerer as I had been a bugeree. I notice that Tom Brown, the pious little squit, completely glossed over THAT particular aspect of his schooldays, but I remember many an occasion when he positively begged for a tossing in Flashy's blankets.  
  
However, it ain't Brown's buttocks that bring the fondest flush of remembrance to my ancient face, but a pair I encountered on quite the most bizarre of my many strange adventures.  
  
To this day, I don't know how it came about. It was early in '43, not long after I'd returned from Afghanistan. Elspeth and I had barely settled down to domestic bliss, and Lola Montez hadn't even crossed my path. I had been at my club, where I'd spent the evening getting pleasantly tight at the expense of a grateful civilian, and I was ambling home, anticipating Elspeth's enthusiastic embraces. Now, if I'd taken a hack, it would never have happened, but I'd decided to walk, to clear my head and ensure that my equipment was fully operational, a skinfull of brandy not being much of an aid to sexual performance. That was how I came to be passing an alley where a bunch of bloody ruffians were skulking, looking for someone to rob, and inevitably they chose me as their target, God rot 'em. A few well- placed blows with the coshes they carried, and I was sleeping sounder than a well used whore.  
  
This was bad enough, but fate had far worse in store for me. Instead of regaining consciousness comfortably restored to the bosom of my wife, or even crumpled on a London street, my coward's ears were greeted by the unmistakeable sound of troopers at rest. When I opened my eyes, I found myself in a God-blasted army camp.  
  
Naturally I thought I was having some kind of nightmare, at first, imagining myself back among the Afghans - but the terrain was all wrong. I struggled to my feet, and grabbed the arm of an elderly, long-haired trooper in a green jacket.  
  
"Where the blazes am I?" I demanded.  
  
"About fifteen miles from Talavera, heading toward Madrid, Sorr." The oik replied in with damned north-country burr.  
  
"D'ye mean to tell me I'm in SPAIN?"  
  
"Aye sorr. Spain it is. Looks like ye've taken a nasty bump to your head, that's set ye all about contrariwise. If I were ye, I'd treat that with petroleum oil and brown paper - that's the best thing for a contrary head, sorr, petroleum oil and best brown paper."  
  
I'd've damned the man's eyes for his impudence, if I'd felt steadier, but as it was I stumbled over a rise and down to the river nearby, to splash some water on my face and try to make sense of what was happening. The British hadn't been engaged in Spain, to my knowledge, since Wellington rompéd the damned Corsican upstart - and the name Talavera sounded ominously like the location of one of Old Hookey's famous victories.  
  
I was more than a little unsteady on my pins, so I knelt down. Suddenly I heard a shout, and four damned great horses hurtled up from behind me. I glanced up, and saw one of them was carrying a squawking and struggling female. Worse, they were dressed in some damned ostentatious uniforms, all over braid - quite clearly Frogs of some description. A sabre whistled over my head, and I do what any sensible man would, hit the floor hard, and played dead. Peering up, I saw the woman swoon, and a red-coated ensign rush up. The fool engaged one rider, and despatched him with as neat a thrust as I've ever seen, and saw off the one who'd snatched the girl with equal promptitude, so that she slipped into the river. That was when his luck ran out and a third rider took him from behind, cutting him down with one stroke. Recapturing their prize would have meant getting of their horses, and the scrap was bound to have been heard, so the pair of remaining Froggies showed themselves men after my own heart, and spurred their beasts off into the hills at a gallop, before more men could arrive from the camp.  
  
My skin safe, I decided the only thing to do was to help up the lady, who had come to what senses she had, before she drowned. I had just scrambled to my feet and was tugging her hand, when a bunch of riflemen crested the rise, and headed down towards me.  
  
I was distracted at that moment by the sodden armful of black-haired doxy I held, who took it into her head to clutch at my coat and start weeping and babbling away in some heathen lingo, interspersing her chatter with kisses to my cheeks, and even my hands, dammit!  
  
As I tried to disentangle myself, I heard one of the troopers say, to my left. "She's only trying to thank you, Sir, she says she's very grateful for you saving her, when your friend - I think she means Ensign Hughes - was overcome." The trooper's voice was surprisingly cultured - doubtless some tutor's brat, I decided.  
  
"What?!" I thought , then it dawned on the that the wench had been lying in a dead swoon during the action. She blacked out with one man in a red coat apparently dead, and another fighting off her abductors, and woke to find with one man in a red coat apparently dead, and another helping her out of the water. Her mistake was not unreasonable (though the dead ensign was no more than five-foot-nine to my strapping six-foot-two), and I certainly wasn't going to contradict her version of events when the rise would have hidden everything from our men. Flashy seemed to have managed to make himself a damned hero again. 


	2. A bonafide hero

"What's the story, Harris? I thought we'd cleared the area of bloody Frenchmen." The voice that spoke carried the authority of an officer, but the accents of a Piccadilly tart.  
  
I turned and beheld a vision - a veritable vision. The green-jacketed lieutenant was older than most of his rank in time of war, probably about thirty, and would never be commended for the neatness of his uniform. But what I noticed about him most were a pair of smouldering eyes, a thin, but sensuous mouth, a good pair of shoulders above a chest and arms which filled his coat to perfection and his codpiece was very nicely stuffed with cod, thank'ee. You could tell at a glance, from the careless way he wore his clothes, that he was no gentleman, of course, but a tastier piece of rough I've never clapped eyes on.  
  
The wench kept a tight clutch on my arm as she went burbling away at the curly-headed trooper, who nodded in that sage way of schoolmasters everywhere that makes you want to rip off their head and use it for a football.  
  
"The girl's from a vineyard, Sir," the trooper reported, as I feasted my eyes on the officer, "she says the Frogs were four deserters who slaughtered their officer and stole his uniform and horses. They've been hiding out at her family's hacienda, and were trying to slip past us to join another group in the hills. They took her along to assure their welcome, but came across Ensign Hughes and this officer. Ensign Hughes was killed in the first pass, but this officer fought them off - he killed the two by the river, and the other two took flight."  
  
"Brave lad! Bloody well done!" The grin that spread across the man's face made it even more appealing, and he stuck out his hand "Richard Sharpe, Lieutenant, 95th Rifles, glad to know you."  
  
I clasped the outstretched member, and almost felt my knees buckle as he gave me a hearty handshake. There was no longer any doubt - if this was Richard Sharpe, then I had somehow arrived in the middle of Wellington's peninsular campaign, some ten years or so before I was actually born.  
  
But. . . Sharpe! The man was a legend. Raised from the ranks for saving Old Hookey's life, he'd risen inexorably echelon by echelon on the back of insane acts of bravery. My father had recited his exploits as bedtime stories (as examples of the best way to get killed, I confess, but you could tell even the Pater had a grudging respect for the man) - he was a bona fide hero.  
  
"F. . .Flashman," I stuttered, "Harry Flashman, Eleventh Hussars."  
  
Now, like any self-respecting coward, I have a healthy disdain for any normally brave man. A stupid disregard for the wholeness of one's skin ain't something I admire, in the general way - but that's common-or-garden bravery. Genuine psychotic heroism, coupled with the relentless resourcefulness that allows a man to survive it, is another thing altogether. I felt like a blushing debutante being introduced to the season's most eligible bachelor - all a-flutter with admiration and desire.  
  
"The eleventh? God save Ireland, but they're miles away!" The speaker was a giant of a man, hefting a vicious looking seven barrelled rifle. Harper, my mind filled in, Sharpe's sergeant, friend and co-actor in scenes of derring-do. And not half-bad himself, the voice of my libido whispered in my ear. Certainly the open, peasants' face and merry smile had a naïve charm about it.  
  
"Took a head wound," says I, in explanation for failing to be with a unit that I'd have no place in for probably thirty years. "Was trying to catch 'em up."  
  
That seemed to satisfy them, though Sharpe shook his head, indulgently.  
  
"Without a horse? A brave idea, lad, but bloody impossible. Come along and join us for now, and we'll get you back to them as soon as may be. You can share my tent, if you wish, and you're not averse to the snores of a common man - but if you're planning to collect the reward that senorita's so plainly offering, I'd thank you to do it before I'm ready to sleep."  
  
I'd quite forgotten the doxy hanging limpet-like on my arm. I took a proper look at her. She was a buxom and bouncy little armful, and I'd've usually been more than prepared to overlook the slight squint in the doe-like eyes and give her a quick tumble, but I decided that on this occasion I'd reserve my energy for the more piquant charms displayed so enticingly by Sharpe's breeches.  
  
Gently I disentangled her fingers and shook my head with a little regretful smile. "Perhaps she should be returned to her family," I ventured. The wench looked chagrined as Sharpe ordered "Kelly, Harris, get the lass back to her folks" and the trooper explained the situation to her in that damned gutteral lingo of hers, but Sharpe beamed in approval, clapped me on the shoulder, and led me back to camp.  
  
Making camp with Sharpe and his Chosen Men was nothing like being with my company in Kabul. His background made it impossible for him to rule them as a matter of course, the way I would have, and instead there was a disturbing kind of friendly companionship. Oh, they called him Mr Sharpe, and Sir, alright, and there was as much or more respect in their voices as there would have been if he'd been a gentleman born, but when he turned to the oldest of them, the impudent bugger who'd been blathering about dressing my head wound with brown paper, and said "Give us a song, Dan," it sounded like a request to a friend. Made me damned uncomfortable, I can tell you, sitting like chums with the scaff and raff, but nothing short of Elspeth's naked form twirling in front of me could have dragged me from Sharpe's side before I'd fulfilled my desire for the man.  
  
Even so, when he handed me a bottle and said "Get some of that down you, Flashman, it'll keep out the cold." I found myself surprised by my response.  
  
"Call me, Harry, do," says I, my voice breathless and boyish to my own ears. "I say, Sharpe, this is a damn fine bottle of brandy."  
  
"Isn't it? I stole it off one of them bastards at the Commissariat while his back was turned." He grinned at me, a raffish expression, which set a flutter of butterflies dancing in my belly.  
  
"Did you really take an Eagle, Sharpe?" God rot it, I must have sounded like one of the fags from Rugby, looking down at him worshipfully. It weren't my usual method of toadying, but let no-one say that Flashy ain't adaptable, when it comes to getting him what he wants.  
  
"Well, together with Pat, there, I did, yes."  
  
I turned to look at the big Sergeant.  
  
Since I've expounded at length in other pages on the various kinds of attractiveness to be found in the gentler sex, I should point out here that chaps are, frankly, much less universally enticing a bunch, so many of 'em being sneaks or snots, pompous or primping. Still there's much to be said in praise of the tight cheeks of a fresh youth, or the style and imagination of a man in his middle years who's travelled with an open mind and picked up a few treasures of debauchery along the way. Sharpe and his Sergeant fitted neither of these categories of course - instead, their appeal came from being a third type: the antithesis of everything feminine. While a woman is a fine wine, soft on the palette, smooth and scented, Sharpe and Harper were cheap blue ruin: hard, rough and stinking, but just as intoxicating. And sometimes, after all, a man just wants to get beastly drunk.  
  
Now, earlier in the evening, I'd seriously considered trying to make the man-mountain my first conquest, since I'd frequently found that lower ranks were easily flattered by the . . . 'special attention' of their officers, and I thought it might make him a tad less protective of Sharpe. However, the way the plump little Spanish hen cooking for the men clucked round him told me he'd be less than amenable to any blandishments I could offer, and what's more, I never have been able to abide an Irish brogue, especially in bed. Somehow yells of "Sweet Mary, Mother of God," or "Great Jaysus!" in the throes of passion always make me feel like I'm defiling a blasted church. I'd probably have overlooked that, just that once, if it meant sampling such a fine specimen of Celtic manhood, but I couldn't ignore the way the impudent son-of-a-bogtrotter eyed me with open amusement and some quizzical speculation.  
  
The bastard was grinning at me, and I swear he winked as he raised the bottle of rotgut he was swilling.  
  
Beside me, Sharpe struggled to stand, stretching. I saw a wince of pain cross his face.  
  
"Are you alright Sharpe?" I asked, eagerly.  
  
"Just twinges, lad. I'm full of 'em. I'm going to take a piss, then turn in. Try to sleep the stiffness out of my bones."  
  
"I. . . . I might be able to help with that, Sharpe, if you'd let me. I've learned a few things. . . an Indian Ayah. . . . You'd sleep better." Of course, I knew bugger all about massage, except that it was supposed to ease pain, but I was convinced that once I got my hands on him I could soon set his juices flowing, and there's no lie ever invented that's as convincing as half-truth, after all, I was damned sure he WOULD sleep well - when I'd finished with him.  
  
"Thank'ee Harry. I'd take it as a kindness. But call me Dick." Sharpe put a friendly hand on my shoulder, his touch making me quiver, before heading away to relieve himself  
  
Harper threw me a pointed look, and as Sharpe disappeared, he walked nonchalantly round the fire. Seemingly bending to get tea from the can that hung there, he spoke softly to me.  
  
"Now then, Mr Flashman, Sir. I know your type, so I do, and I know what it is you have in your mind. I'll do nothing to get in your way, if you can bring some aise to Mr Sharpe, in one way or another, but be very clear m'lad, that if you do him any ill - bring him any pain -- any -- then God save Ireland, but I'll have your entrails on a stick, so I will, and I'll lead you by them the length of this country while the carrion birds peck at them, as sure as Mary bore Jaysus in innocence and light."  
  
Then he smiled. I swear my guts turned to water and tried to piss themselves out of me, and it was only iron control, learned in many situations of similar screaming fear that prevented me from soiling my breeches where I sat.  
  
He reached out, and patted me gently on the cheek, still smiling. "Now, just you remember that, Mr Flashman, Sir, and I'm sure that everything will be just fine and dandy, so it will."  
  
By the time Dick Sharpe returned, I'll be damned if I wasn't ready to offer him my unworthy hand in marriage, together with what little remained of the Flashman estates and fortune, if that was what was necessary to keep Harper happy. I'd also scoped out every possible escape route from the camp, in preparation should I need to run - 'expect the worst and be prepared for' it has ever been my motto. 


	3. Battle is joined

Of course, it ain't in my nature to fret for long, so once the tent flap fell, I turned my full attention to the delectable Dick. He'd shed his shirt, and I found myself presented with a back like a battlefield. I'd seen nothing like it before. I'd have died from the pain of one tenth that punishment, I knew, an seeing him still sitting and remembering his smile earlier, I was struck anew with the power of the bastard, and my prick reacted in the same surging fashion it always does when faced with something remarkable.  
  
He must've thought I was repulsed by what I saw, for he spoke in one of those gentle voices you use for reassuring puling brats. "I was flogged, Harry. I know it's no pretty sight. If you're troubled by it, no shame. I can sleep well enough." He reached for his shirt.  
  
"No!" the word burst from me. My hands were burning to explore that ruined flesh. "No, Sharpe, it's fine I was just. . ." lusting, I thought, "surprised." I finished. "Lie down, it'll be easier to reach all the aches that way."  
  
When he complied, lying on his belly, and resting is chin on his arms. I knelt across the small of his back, high on my knees, to keep him from discovering the state of my member prematurely, and leaned forward to rub the shoulders where they joined the neck with a light but insistent pressure.  
  
After a few minutes of this treatment, he sighed, and commented, "Your hands are as soft as a lass's, Harry, but with more strength. I thank you, lad, that's eased the aching. I'll trouble you no further."  
  
"It's no trouble, " says I. To be frank, I could no more have taken my hands of him then than I could have failed to a brandy and puggle pressed into my hand, "Relax, Sharpe, let me see if I can't do more."  
  
"Aye lad, well, if you're sure. But again, I say, call me Dick."  
  
I pressed my thumbs to the base of his spine, and began to move them with a firm, even pressure up toward his neck. The result was instant, and gratifying. He moaned, and behind my own arse, I felt his buttocks tighten. Success, I thought - the great man's great part was making its presence known.  
  
"By lad, that's fine," he grated, "but you've no need," and I could hear stiff awkwardness in his tone, but nothing more. He was obviously embarrassed by his reaction to my hands, but not surprised.  
  
So, Mr Sharpe wasn't a stranger to affection between men. That would make things easier - and speedier. I grinned, and let my knees bend further, still working my hands up and down his spine, until my crotch rested against his back, letting him feel the unmistakable bulge between my legs.  
  
"Oh yes, I have Dick," I murmured, making my voice as husky as I could, "I've every need." He groaned again as I rubbed, and I asked, "Don't that feel good?"  
  
He gave a crack of laughter. "You know bloody well it does! I think I might have misjudged you, Harry Flashman."  
  
"Misjudged me?" Of course he'd misjudged me - people always have. They look at the bluster and see heartiness, look at the tall straight bearing and see courage, where it's just the supreme effort of will to keep the contents of my bowels where they belong that keeps me so upright, most of the time. But I was fairly sure that wasn't what he meant.  
  
"I thought I'd taken a boy in hand here," says he, " A brave boy, yes, but one I'd have to protect, to look after. I think I might have been mistaken. I think you might be well able to look after yourself."  
  
I laughed, quietly and leaned forward, so I lay along his back, and pressed a light kiss into the junction of his shoulder and neck. "Oh yes, Dick, that WAS a mistake. I can look after myself just fine - but that's irrelevant, at the moment, because I'm going to look after YOU, Don't y'see?" My hands slid round underneath him and found the fastening of his breeches, making him shudder from head to toe.  
  
After that, being men, we didn't speak much.  
  
I'd soon eased him out of his remaining clothes, and begun a proper exploration of the various marks army life had put on his body, beginning by running my tongue along the sword cut that bisected the welts left by the whip.  
  
He sucked air sharply into his lungs then had let it out in a long hiss, before he rolled onto his back, so I was looking down into his face. It was just as lust soaked as any eager strumpet's and he grasped the back of my head to pull me roughly down into a kiss.  
  
I realised then that this wouldn't be an entirely Flashy-directed encounter. Of course, that ain't a bad thing - enthusiasm in a lover is greatly to be desired, and Dick's leisurely thrusting of tongue toward the Flashman tonsils set up a pleasant little buzz in the groinal region, this greatly enhanced when a hard hand began to rub deliberately up and down the front of my breeches.  
  
"Wait," I gasped, scrabbling to uncover the only eager soldier in the Flashman clan, which, freed from its restraints, stood proudly and stiffly to attention.  
  
The slow grin spread across Sharpe's face, as he took the trooper firmly in hand, murmuring "By, you're a well made, lad, Harry" and for a while, I confined myself to strangled noises and a close examination of his chest, applying tongue and teeth to his nipples, before tuning my attention to a gash down the side of his ribs.  
  
"Lance," he murmured as I kissed my way down it, loosing my tool to stroke my hair.  
  
His belly, I found, was remarkably unblemished, though I looked closely for wounds, and the next anatomical wonder that rose to meet my eyes appeared equally unharmed.  
  
Still, I thought it best to be sure, so I gave every part of it a brisk once over with my tongue, prompting Dick to resort to his trooper's vocabulary, with an exclamation of "Holy FUCK, Harry."  
  
I've always liked a man who ain't mealy-mouthed, and knows what he wants, so that when I thought to venture lower and he hissed, "If you take your damned mouth away from what you're doing now, Harry Flashman, I'll break your bloody neck", I was glad to oblige him and continue my ministrations.  
  
And shortly, I was even more impressed than I'd been before. He showed the stoic resilience that has made the British solider so feared across the empire, bearing up as bravely under the assault of my tongue as he did when flogged, and I'm damned sure I gave him a great many more than 200 lashes. I suspect we broke a record, though if I dared to claim it, no doubt some damn Yankee would put in a counter to best me. Even so, Dick held out under siege for a good hour before surrendering unconditionally with an ecstatic sigh.  
  
I continued my interrupted progress downward then, and was stunned to see his flag struggling to hoist itself again, even as I moved from thigh to thigh, kissing the bullet wound in the left softly, and stroking a fingertip along the long bayonet slash that stopped just short of disaster in the inner right. You don't see forces regrouping that quickly every day, I can tell you, and it must have made Wellington proud to command such a man.  
  
Tough and keen though he might be, however, I had no intention of letting Sharpe engage in another bout until I'd filled a breech of my own.  
  
His last scar was ideally placed for my purposes, a slash on the right kneecap. I took a perfect attacking position, my shoulders under Sharpe's knees then sat myself up to rest on my heels. This left his knees over my shoulder, the wound perfectly placed to kiss better, but more importantly, it lifted his buttocks from the bed, lining the crack in his defences up just rightly for me to press my attack home smoothly.  
  
"Present arse, Mr Sharpe," I murmurs.  
  
"Advance, Mr Flashman," he replies "at the double, if you please."  
  
I never obeyed an order with more alacrity in my life, nor got greater satisfaction out of doing my duty.  
  
Battle, of the most delightful kind, raged back and forth for most of the rest of the night, and I confess without shame that I was totally outgunned. My brief and glorious conquest was countered by an invasion so thorough and complete I weren't sure that Sharpe was ever going to withdraw. Not to put too fine a point on it (although his point, God love it, was as fine as bloody hell) Dick Sharpe all but rogered me senseless, then used his mouth to suck out any remaining wit I had, so that I was a total blathering nincompoop when he rolled me over and mounted a second attack on the Flashman rear. I assumed it was a Forlorn Hope. It turned out to be another rout. I was defeated. I was in love.  
  
It was nearly dawn before Sharpe's exhausted soldier failed to muster for action, and we slept, at last, locked together, in bruised and sweaty contentment. 


	4. A spoke in the wheel

I woke as he slipped out of the tent.  
  
"Morning Pat," I heard him say.  
  
"Mornin' Sir. Your tea's brewed, and ready."  
  
"Thanks Pat."  
  
"And you've special treat today, Sir, Ramona has managed to find you some eggs to break your fast."  
  
"Find?"  
  
"That's what she calls it, Sir. I don't argue."  
  
"That's probably a good move. Has she . . . found enough for Harry too, d'ye think?"  
  
"She has if he's up before you've finished eating them, Sir."  
  
"He'll 'ave to be quick then, I've a fine appetite on me today. "  
  
"Sure, and that's fine to see. Here, take your tea, and Ramona will have you fed in two shakes of a lambs tail."  
  
I slid out of the tent and stood, stretching, and taking deep lungfuls of Spanish air.  
  
"Morning, Mr Flashman, Sir," Harper grinned. "Sleep well, Sir?"  
  
"Like a baby, Sergeant, like a baby. Fine morning, Sergeant."  
  
"That it is, Sir." The man's smile was warm, open and without a trace of threat. "That it is indeed" Patrick Harper was clearly a perceptive bog- trotter, and knew that he could attribute his beloved Lieutenant's sunny mood to the tender care of Flash Harry. I warmed to the fellow. After all, he and I shared a common purpose now - the happiness of one Dick Sharpe.  
  
I sat by the fire, sipping the disgusting stuff that Harper called tea. If Dick hadn't so plainly been relishing it, I'd've spat the vile stuff out, damned his eyes and demanded a proper brew, but it ain't in me to make a scene when I'm with a new lover, and the eggs Harper's wench fed us on were marvellous - not least for turning up miraculously fresh and luscious in the midst of an army on the march.  
  
Ramona appeared to be a resourceful female, as well as a toothsome little morsel, and my estimation of Harper increased again, both for his discriminating choice, and for being able to attach and hold her, amongst so many men with greater resources. I did feel a momentary pang of regret knowing that I'd not be able to taste the delights of either of 'em, but even the dumbest animal, which yours truly ain't, knows that you don't shit where you eat.  
  
The men struck camp as we ate, and we moved out shortly thereafter. As I marched companionably by Dick's side, it occurred to me that while I'd ploughed a few furrows in the ranks in Kabul, this was the first time I'd been able to enjoy a lover's company on the march, I've always preferred the common soldier to officers and gentlemen when it comes to humping -- the latter group being nearly to a man a rascally set of self-glorifying rogues and scoundrels - a situation that don't generally lead to open friendliness, especially when I'm generally on a horse, and the object of my gallantry marching in the line.  
  
No mention was made of the night just passed, naturally, though we contrived to have our fingertips brush as often as might be, which I knew sent little shocks of delightful anticipation through all six foot two of the Flashman frame when I cast my mind forward to camp at the day's end, and I judged from the wicked twinkle in Dick's eye that his thoughts took a similar turn.  
  
We both feigned weariness and retired even before the Spanish sun had sunk properly below the hills, and battle was fairly joined as soon as the tent flap fell, though this second night was perhaps a trifle more leisurely than the first. We spared more time for kisses and caresses, and I discovered that loutish as he looked, and hard and fast as he undoubtedly rode when his blood was rightly up, Sharpe had something of a talent for tenderness beneath his rough manner, unveiling an impressive arsenal of teasing touches, fleeting brushes of finger tips, flickerings of tongue and playful nips with his teeth that reduced me quickly to a whimpering mongrel cur rising eagerly on to all fours and all but begging to be shafted. His energy and stamina weren't noticeably diminished by the previous night's hurly burly, and once again, it was a blissfully happy and fulfilled Flashy that curled himself round the rifleman's lean frame and rested his head on Sharpe's chest, listening to his even breathing and soft snores as the sun began to rise, and drifting into a sweet and sated doze.  
  
The next morning dawned bright and fair, Harwer was benign, Ramona's cooking delicious and the world was glowingly right.  
  
Obviously, it was too good to last.  
  
An Ensign, barely out of the nursery, trotted over and stood at attention in front of Sharpe, all but quivering in his eagerness.  
  
"Well lad, spit it out," says Dick, "I haven't got all day."  
  
"General Wellington's compliments, Mr Sharpe, and would you and the other officer join him in his tent when you've finished your breakfast, Sir."  
  
"Aye, lad. Tell the General I'll be along directly."  
  
I was quite keen to meet old Hookey, him being the only commander m'father had ever considered fit to lead a mule, let alone an army, and I wasn't disappointed when we fronted up.  
  
He was an imposing-looking fellow, ramrod straight, imperious his beak of a nose adding character to what would otherwise have been a commonplace face. His air was brisk.  
  
"Flashman?" says he, when Dick makes the introduction, "Any relation to Buck Flashman?"  
  
I disavowed any relationship with my paternal progenitor gaily, and we got down to business.  
  
"It's these damned Frog deserters, Sharpe," he says, "they're makin' a demmed nuisance of themselves, raidin' the peasantry then skulkin' back to their hills. I need them flushed out and killed or captured. There must be twenty or thirty of the scoundrels hiding away up there."  
  
"Yes, Sir." Sharpe was standing very upright, the picture of a keen officer and a modest hero. What a man my Dick was! I thought, tenderly.  
  
"Well, man, are you and your Chosen Men up to the task? Your leg wounds not troublin' you?"  
  
"Not too much, Sir. Can you give me an idea of where they're holed up, Sir?"  
  
Hookey gestured to an officer on his left, who spread a map on the table between him and Sharpe. He waved his hand over an area on the left. "Somewhere in there, Sharpe. The area's a rabbit warren of caves, and the passes are too narrow to send a proper company in - but it's perfect for a small force like you and your rascals. Plenty of overhangin' rocks for that marksman of yours, Hagman, to snipe from, plenty of routes to outflank the bastards and take 'em by surprise. I'll rely on you then, Sharpe, shall I?"  
  
"Yes Sir, certainly Sir."  
  
You had to marvel at the man's total confidence when presented with such poor odds in adverse conditions, but I was devastated. It sounded like the type of foray that a goodly proportion of the participants didn't return from, and my passion for the lusty rifleman was still too fresh and green for me to view the likelihood of losing him with any kind of equanimity. I'd miss him powerful badly, if he got himself killed, God rot him!  
  
Then Wellington made things worse, by an order of magnitude.  
  
"Why not take young Flashman here along of you? Show him some soldierin' out of the common way - give the boy something to brag about when he returns to his regiment."  
  
Sweet Christ and all his little angels, no!  
  
"I. . . I'd be honoured, Sir, deeply honoured." I lied manfully, "Though Lieutenant Sharpe may find me something of a liability - I took a head wound, Sir, at Talavera, and I find myself often distracted. I'd hate to imperil the mission."  
  
The great man shrugged and proved himself to be the finest commander I'd ever served under with the remark "As you will Flashman. No doubt you know best." Alas for the modern army that lacks his like!  
  
I was like to faint with relief when we left, having to drag air into my lungs at my narrow escape. Inevitably, my reprieve was not to be long lived.  
  
We stood under a tree, hidden from the camp. Dick looked into my face, his eyes hurt, reproachful.  
  
"Will ye not come with me, Harry?" says he, and the blackguard reached a hand up to softly cup my cheek, stroking it with his thumb.  
  
Take Flashy's first rule of love free, gratis and for nothing - it may save your life. Chaps, never fall in love with a man - or if you must, at least don't fall in love with a hero. You can confess cowardice to a woman, and she, God bless her, will only love you all the more for it. A man will despise you. The hero, though, he won't feel contempt - he'll keep loving you, but he'll pity you for your weakness, and if there's one thing I can't stand, whining, snivelling cur though I be, it's pity  
  
So, what was I to do, with my prick stirring restlessly, every nerve ending screaming out desire, and my heart bursting with fondness for this hero of mine?  
  
"If you want me, Dick," I murmured, and started to plan my escape when I for wouldn't have look at him and see the disappointment in his eyes. 


	5. This one's for you

While Dick talked over his plans with the Chosen Men, I waited my chance, but every time I looked t have a fair opportunity to slip away, that evil bastard Harper would pin me with his gaze and I'd turn back to the matter in hand, though I heard not one word in twenty.  
  
It was my own stupid lusts that ruined my best chance though. The rifles were wrapped in their blankets by the fire, and I was sat beside Dick, the two of us alone, both staring into the dying embers and brooding on our own thoughts. He stood.  
  
"I'm off for a piss," says he, and I see the gate to escape open with gleeful eyes, then he puts a hand on my shoulder and murmurs soft and low, "Then bed, I think, Harry. What say you, me douce lad? Are you ready for bed, and for me?"  
  
Just till he sleeps, I thought, I'll take my pleasure, and when he sleeps I'll be gone.  
  
It was all the sweeter for the knowing it was the last I'd ever have of him, and I scarce noticed the time passing in my spiralling ecstasy as he moved on me, and I on him, in a frenzied dance of passion. Before I knew it, he was untangling my clinging arms from round his body and pulling away from my greedy kiss regretfully.  
  
"Time to go, Harry" he says, gesturing to the dim light beginning to filter through the canvas.  
  
The enormity of it hit me. I was off to near-certain death.  
  
M'father always warned me to give heroes a wide birth "They'll get you killed before breakfast, six days out of seven." How I wished, despite the residual glow of a night of manifold and manifest pleasures, that I'd followed his advice more closely. I moaned pitifully, unable to stop the gut-wrenching fear escaping.  
  
Sharpe took it for frustration, and smiled.  
  
"It's just till tonight, me bonnie boy," he coos, "and then I'll give you the ride of your life, I promise. Now dress quickly Harry, we've work to do."  
  
I dragged on my uniform, and joined the motley band walking silently and seriously toward the hills, a couplet from that God-rotted Hagman's favourite song whirling insistently around the Flashman noggin.  
  
"If I should fall to rise no more, as many comrades have before. . .. If I should fall. . ." To distract myself, I whispered to Harris, "What's that village down there?" It was a question I immediately wished back in my mouth when he answered.  
  
"They call it Torre Vidor, Mr Flashman."  
  
Now, I didn't listen to half what m'father had to say, as I was growing, finding him a prosy, self-serving and self-glorifying old bore, but the name hit me in the face with the force of a kick from a maddened warhorse.  
  
"Named you for the only man to carry the Flashman name ever to be lost in action, rather than die in bed m'boy. No relation, as far as I know, but we claim the bastard anyway, he adds to our consequence." The words rose up like a phoenix from the ashes of forgetfulness.  
  
"How did he die, Papa?" God pity me, I could even hear my own childish treble lisping pathetically in my memory.  
  
"Got himself caught up in some little side mission in the hills above Torre Vidor. As far as I know his body still lies there somewhere lost amongst the cracks and caves."  
  
"Wath he a hewo, Papa?"  
  
"He was dead, Harry, lost - what does it matter? There's a lesson in your name, my son - never volunteer for anything, especially if it might considered heroic "  
  
"Yeth, Papa."  
  
So now I knew, I thought. I was dragging my heart along in the heels of boots some Chosen Man had polished to a high gloss.  
  
"Chin up, Harry," Sharpe whispered, seeing my despondent demeanour. "We'll be back at camp by dinner time, and who knows, maybe the pair of us'll get captaincies for our troubles."  
  
"YOU might," says I, "I'M going to die."  
  
"Oh, bollocks, lad, I'll not let ye die." He grinned, but even that infectious smile and his laughing sotto voce comment, "Trust Dick Sharpe to keep close watch on an arse he values so highly," failed to raise my spirits. After all, I knew. I couldn't even turn and run, the pass was too narrow for more than a single man. Sharp-eyed Perkins led the way, with Rifleman Harris; Dick and I followed with Kelly, Tongue, Hagman and close behind and Pat Harper bringing up the rear. I was thoroughly hemmed in.  
  
I was doomed.  
  
Then came Perkins word. The riflemen disposed themselves about, grim faced and determined God damn their eyes for the surly rogues and blackguards they were. I knew that soon Dan Hagman would start shooting, fire would be returned, and then I'd be done for - tied, stuffed and roasted to a turn.  
  
It as then I decided I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. After all, m'father had said "lost". A punctilious man like the Pater would have said "killed" had he been definite sure. And, after all, he didn't know what I knew - that the foolish Harry was the same whining, snivelling, whore-mongering cad he'd so carefully raised.  
  
I reckoned I stood one chance - albeit a small one. I could treat these Froggies to a Flashman charge, trust to whichever power protects the vile and villainous and hope that they would react as many had done before; from the footy fields of Rugby, to the battlefields of Afghanistan.  
  
I squeezed Dick's firm thigh, gave him a sweet, boyish smile, and launched myself down towards the camp with a banshee wail.  
  
The Flashman charge (since it involves ADVANCING and therefore goes against every finely tuned instinct in the Flashman psyche, which demands that one put as much distance as possible between one's skin and those that want to damage it in the shortest possible time) is the desperation move of last resort. It is only every attempted from higher ground and consists of running hell-for-leather toward the enemy with the left arm stuck rigidly out from the body at right-angles, the right arm swinging in huge figure of eight motions (usually holding a sword, cutlass or sabre, although Arnold frowned on that in Games) and bellowing at the top of one's lungs. If you take into account that we tend to be a strapping family (not a man among us fails to top six-foot-one, and a good few Flashman ladies are veritable Amazons) it presents a daunting sight. The reach of the two arms is sufficient to keep even the most foolhardy at a fairly safe distance, the speed of the run has developed (through countless hasty retreats) to the stage that I am able to present a target that moves too swiftly for even the sharpest marksman to get a solid aim and the bellow. . . is a primal scream of sheer bloody terror.  
  
The Frogs, deserters every one, proved themselves to be the bunch of rascally cowards I hoped they might and dived predictably for cover. A channel opened up through the middle of them and your humble narrator slipped between them like a hot knife through butter. The idea and intention was, of course, to keep running on running out the other side, this time in my preferred direction - AWAY from danger.  
  
And it would have worked perfectly too, if the path hadn't made a sharp turn barely yards beyond the huddle of blackguards, the ground falling sharply away in a chasm. Unable to correct my course, I struggled to stop, teetered on the brink of the precipice and pitched over. Panic robbed me of my senses and plunged me into blackness.  
  
I awoke, sitting bolt upright in my bed at home, still screaming bloody murder.  
  
"Harry! Oh Harry!" I was enveloped in a cloud of billowy lace and bosoms, as my helpmeet, my darling Elspeth, clasped me to her breast and rained kisses on my head, exclaiming "Oh, my darling, you've come back to me"  
  
"Wha. . .?" I fear I was lacking my usual eloquence at that juncture.  
  
"You've been lying like one dead these three days past, my love," she explained, "ever since those . . . those VILLAINS set upon you. I thought I'd lost you. The Doctor feared you would never recover."  
  
I grunted. "What do sawbones know, damn their eyes? I ain't so easy to mislay, my love."  
  
The little angel fluffed and fluttered around me, until, sorely beset, I sent her off to fetch me a restorative glass of brandy and puggle.  
  
While she was away, I tried to get my mind into some kind of order. What had happened these three days gone? Had I been experiencing some kind of delirium, some dream? Given the erotic nature, it was highly probable, but yet. . . I decided to set myself to discover.  
  
"My dearest," says I (she likes these little affectations, bless her). "would you send round to m'father's house, with my compliments, and ask if I can borrow the Sharpe Memoirs?"  
  
Eager to do my every wish - an eagerness that I would, naturally take full advantage of later - she did so.  
  
The leather bound volume she brought back was a weighty tome, and, I guessed, was the work of some pen other than Dick Sharpe's. Few military men care to scribble, after all, though almost all of them love to boast. I was about to turn to the index to look up Torre Vidor, when the dedication caught my eye, and answered my questions.  
  
"For Pat Harper," it read, in gothick script, "the truest of friends. For the Chosen Men, brave souls every one; and for Harry Flashman, a courageous and bonnie lad, too soon lost, but never forgotten."  
  
Well damn me if I didn't get a little misty-eyed at the thought that my lusty rifleman held the memory of those three blissful Spanish nights so dear. So now I return the favour.  
  
This one's for you Dick. God love you, wherever you are. 


End file.
